The King’s Dinner Sandra Rose Hughes

The phoenix sang her final song, her mournful tune, last night. A song of grief, a song of joy, a song of dark and light.

My king believed the phoenix chick, if served upon his plate, Would grant him immortality, and stave off all man’s fate. Thus in the morning I was sent to find the new-hatched bird. I started forth before the dawn near where her song was heard.

In top of a palmetto, an oasis in a glen, I found her small and trembling in a nest of cinnamon.

I found the blue-eyed fledgling bird a-crying in the ash. Her eyes were bright, her beak gleamed sharp, her down a ruby flash. I reached up for the phoenix though she shrank away from me. With gauntlet on, I captured her she did not peck nor flee.

Now that I’d seized the phoenix bird I’d promised to my lord, I turned back to his lordship who held my vast reward.

I placed the phoenix in my bag and clasped the leather flap. Hardly guessing that her eyes had set for me a trap. For I’d not guessed her tender eyes could soften my hard core; I thought about my son, who I’d left playing on the floor.

My son had bright blue eyes, you see, much like the fragile nestling. Before my heel could take a step, my mind and heart were wrestling.

My mind told me I’d done my work- the silver coins were mine, As long as I turned in the bird and then the king could dine.